“Oh!  Lamh Laudher,” said Ellen, affected at the imputation contained in his last observation; “don’t you treat me with such suspicion.  I suffer enough for your sake, as it is.  For nearly two years, a day has hardly passed that my family hasn’t wrung the burnin’ tears from my eyes on your account.  Haven’t I refused matches that any young woman in my station of life ought to be I proud to accept?”

“You did, Ellen, you did; but still I know how hard it is for you to hould out against the persecution you suffer at home.  No, no, Ellen dear, I never doubted you for one minute.  All I wondher at is, that such a girl as you ever could think of one so humble as I am, compared to what you’d have a right to expect an’ could get.”

“Well, but if I’m willin’ to prefer you, John?” said Ellen, with a smile.

“One thing I know, Ellen,” he replied, “an’ that is, that I’m far from bein’ worthy of you; an’ I ought, if I had a high enough spirit, to try to turn you against me, if it was only that you might marry a man that ’ud have it in his power to make you happier than ever I’ll be able to do; any way, than ever it’s likely I’ll be able to do.”

“I don’t think, John, that ever money or the wealth of the world made a man an’ wife love one another yet, if they didn’t do it before; but it has often put their hearts against one another.”

“I agree wid you in that, Ellen; but you don’t know how my heart sinks when I think of your an’ my own poverty.  My poor father, since the strange disappearance of little Alice, never was able to raise his head; and indeed my mother was worse.  If the child had died, an’ that we knew she slept with ourselves, it would be a comfort.  But not to know what became of her—­whether she was drowned or kidnapped—­that was what crushed their hearts.  I must say that since I grew up, we’re improvin’; an’ I hope, God willin’, now that my father laves the management of the farm to myself, we’ll still improve more an’ more.  I hope it for their sakes, but—­more, if possible, for yours.  I don’t know what I wouldn’t do to make you happy, Ellen.  If my life could do it, I think I could lay it down to show the love I bear you.  I could take to the highway and rob for your sake, if I thought it would bring me means to make you happy.”

Ellen was touched by his sincerity, as well as by the tone of manly sorrow with which he spoke.  His last words, however, startled her, when she considered the vehement manner in which he uttered them.

“John,” said she, alarmed, “never, while you have life, let me hear a word of that kind out of your lips.  No—­never, for the sake of heaven above us, breathe it, or think of it.  But, I’ll tell you something, an’ you must hear it, an’ bear it too, with patience.”

“What is it, Ellen!  If it’s fair an’ manly, I’ll be guided by your advice.”

“Meehaul has threatened to—­to—­I mane to say, that you musn’t have any quarrel with him, if he meets you or provokes you.  Will you promise this?”